impressed him deeply. At the slightest sound, at even the suggestion of
an alarm, he must fly. The will might take care of itself. In case he
were interrupted, where he dropped it there must it lie. The fact of
supreme importance was that unrecognized he should escape.
The walls of the dining-room were covered with panels of oak, and built
into the jog of the fireplace and concealed by a movable panel was the
safe. In front of it Jimmie sank to his knees and pushed back the
panel. Propped upon a chair behind him, the electric torch threw its
shaft of light full upon the combination lock. On the floor, ready to
his hand, lay the will.
The combination was not difficult. It required two turns left, three
right, and in conjunction two numerals. While so intent upon his work
that he scarcely breathed, Jimmie spun the knob. Then he tugged gently,
and the steel door swung toward him.
At the same moment, from behind him, a metallic click gave an instant's
warning, and then the room was flooded with light.
From his knees, in one bound, Jimmie flung himself toward his avenue of
escape.
It was blocked by the bulky form of Preston, the butler.
Jimmie turned and doubled back to the door of the living-room. He found
himself confronted by his wife.
The sleeve of her night-dress had fallen to her shoulder and showed her
white arm extended toward him. In her hand, pointing, was an automatic
pistol.
Already dead, Jimmie feared nothing but discovery.
The door to the living-room was wide enough for two. With his head down
he sprang toward it. There was a report that seemed to shake the walls,
and something like the blow of a nightstick knocked his leg from under
him and threw him on his back. The next instant Preston had landed with
both knees on his lower ribs and was squeezing his windpipe.
Jimmie felt he was drowning. Around him millions of stars danced. And
then from another world, in a howl of terror, the voice of Preston
screamed. The hands of the butler released their hold upon his throat.
As suddenly as he had thrown himself upon him he now recoiled.
"It's _'im!_" he shouted; "it's _'im!_"
"Him?" demanded Jeanne.
"_It's Mr. Blagwin!_"
Unlike Preston, Jeanne did not scream; nor did she faint. So greatly did
she desire to believe that "'im" was her husband, that he still was in
the same world with herself, that she did not ask how he had escaped
from the other world, or why, having escaped, he spent his time robbing
his own house.
Instead, much like Preston, she threw herself at him and in her young,
firm arms lifted him and held him close.
"Jimmie!" she cried, "_speak_ to me; _speak_ to me!"
The blow on the back of the head, the throttling by Preston, the
"stopping power" of the bullet, even though it passed only through his
leg, had left Jimmie somewhat confused. He knew only that it was a
dream. But wonderful as it was to dream that once more he was with
Jeanne, that she clung to him, needed and welcomed him, he could not
linger to enjoy the dream. He was dead. If not, he must escape. Honor
compelled it. He made a movement to rise, and fell back.
The voice of Preston, because he had choked his master, full of remorse,
and, because his mistress had shot him, full of reproach, rose in
dismay:
"You've 'it 'im in the leg, ma'am!"
Jimmie heard Jeanne protest hysterically:
"That's nothing, he's _alive_!" she cried. "I'd hit him again if it
would only make him _speak_!" She pressed the bearded face against her
own. "Speak to me," she whispered; "tell me you forgive me. Tell me you
love me!"
Jimmie opened his eyes and smiled at her.
"You never had to shoot me," he stammered, "to make me tell you _that_."
THE CARD-SHARP
I had looked forward to spending Christmas with some people in Suffolk,
and every one in London assured me that at their house there would be
the kind of a Christmas house party you hear about but see only in the
illustrated Christmas numbers. They promised mistletoe, snapdragon, and
Sir Roger de Coverley. On Christmas morning we would walk to church,
after luncheon we would shoot, after dinner we would eat plum pudding
floating in blazing brandy, dance with the servants, and listen to the
waits singing "God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay."
To a lone American bachelor stranded in London it sounded fine. And in
my gratitude I had already shipped to my hostess, for her children, of
whose age, number, and sex I was ignorant, half of Gamage's dolls,
skees, and cricket bats, and those crackers that, when you pull them,
sometimes explode. But it was not to be. Most inconsiderately my
wealthiest patient gained sufficient courage to consent to an
operation, and in all New York would permit no one to lay violent hands
upon him save myself. By cable I advised postponement. Having lived in
lawful harmony with his appendix for fifty years, I thought, for one
week longer he might safely maintain the _status quo_. But his cable in
reply was an ultimatum. So, on Christmas eve, instead of Hallam Hall and
a Yule log, I was in a gale plunging and pitching off the coast of
Ireland, and the only log on board was the one the captain kept to
himself.
I sat in the smoking-room, depressed and cross, and it must have been on
the principle that misery loves company that I forgathered with Talbot,
or rather that Talbot forgathered with me. Certainly, under happier
conditions and in haunts of men more crowded, the open-faced manner in
which he forced himself upon me would have put me on my guard. But,
either out of deference to the holiday spirit, as manifested in the
fictitious gayety of our few fellow passengers, or because the young man
in a knowing, impertinent way was most amusing, I listened to him from
dinner time until midnight, when the chief officer, hung with snow and
icicles, was blown in from the deck and wished all a merry Christmas.
Even after they unmasked Talbot I had neither the heart nor the
inclination to turn him down. Indeed, had not some of the passengers
testified that I belonged to a different profession, the smoking-room
crowd would have quarantined me as his accomplice. On the first night I
met him I was not certain whether he was English or giving an imitation.
All the outward and visible signs were English, but he told me that,
though he had been educated at Oxford and since then had spent most of
his years in India, playing polo, he was an American. He seemed to have
spent much time, and according to himself much money, at the French
watering-places and on the Riviera. I felt sure that it was in France I
had already seen him, but where I could not recall. He was hard to
place. Of people at home and in London well worth knowing he talked
glibly, but in speaking of them he made several slips. It was his taking
the trouble to cover up the slips that first made me wonder if his
talking about himself was not mere vanity, but had some special object.
I felt he was presenting letters of introduction in order that later he
might ask a favor. Whether he was leading up to an immediate loan, or in
New York would ask for a card to a club, or an introduction to a banker,
I could not tell. But in forcing himself upon me, except in
self-interest, I could think of no other motive. The next evening I
discovered the motive.
He was in the smoking-room playing solitaire, and at once I recalled
that it was at Aix-les-Bains I had first seen him, and that he held a
bank at baccarat. When he asked me to sit down I said: "I saw you last
summer at Aix-les-Bains."
His eyes fell to the pack in his hands and apparently searched it for
some particular card.
"What was I doing?" he asked.
"Dealing baccarat at the Casino des Fleurs."
With obvious relief he laughed.
"Oh, yes," he assented; "jolly place, Aix. But I lost a pot of money
there. I'm a rotten hand at cards. Can't win, and can't leave 'em
alone." As though for this weakness, so frankly confessed, he begged me
to excuse him, he smiled appealingly. "Poker, bridge, chemin de fer, I
like 'em all," he rattled on, "but they don't like me. So I stick to
solitaire. It's dull, but cheap." He shuffled the cards clumsily. As
though making conversation, he asked: "You care for cards yourself?"
I told him truthfully I did not know the difference between a club and a
spade and had no curiosity to learn. At this, when he found he had been
wasting time on me, I expected him to show some sign of annoyance, even
of irritation, but his disappointment struck far deeper. As though I had
hurt him physically, he shut his eyes, and when again he opened them I
saw in them distress. For the moment I believe of my presence he was
utterly unconscious. His hands lay idle upon the table; like a man
facing a crisis, he stared before him. Quite improperly, I felt sorry
for him. In me he thought he had found a victim; and that the loss of
the few dollars he might have won should so deeply disturb him showed
his need was great. Almost at once he abandoned me and I went on deck.
When I returned an hour later to the smoking-room he was deep in a game
of poker.
As I passed he hailed me gayly.
"Don't scold, now," he laughed; "you know I can't keep away from it."
From his manner those at the table might have supposed we were friends
of long and happy companionship. I stopped behind his chair, but he
thought I had passed, and in reply to one of the players answered:
"Known him for years; he's set me right many a time. When I broke my
right femur 'chasin,' he got me back in the saddle in six weeks. All my
people swear by him."
One of the players smiled up at me, and Talbot turned. But his eyes met
mine with perfect serenity. He even held up his cards for me to see.
"What would you draw?" he asked.
His audacity so astonished me that in silence I could only stare at him
and walk on.
When on deck he met me he was not even apologetic. Instead, as though we
were partners in crime, he chuckled delightedly.
"Sorry," he said. "Had to do it. They weren't very keen at my taking a
hand, so I had to use your name. But I'm all right now," he assured me.
"They think you vouched for me, and to-night they're going to raise the
limit. I've convinced them I'm an easy mark."
"And I take it you are not," I said stiffly.
He considered this unworthy of an answer and only smiled. Then the smile
died, and again in his eyes I saw distress, infinite weariness, and
fear.
As though his thoughts drove him to seek protection, he came closer.
"I'm 'in bad,' doctor," he said. His voice was frightened, bewildered,
like that of a child. "I can't sleep; nerves all on the loose. I don't
think straight. I hear voices, and no one around. I hear knockings at
the door, and when I open it, no one there. If I don't keep fit I can't
work, and this trip I _got_ to make expenses. You couldn't help me,
could you--couldn't give me something to keep my head straight?"
The need of my keeping his head straight that he might the easier rob
our fellow passengers raised a pretty question of ethics. I meanly
dodged it. I told him professional etiquette required I should leave him
to the ship's surgeon.
"But I don't know _him_," he protested.
Mindful of the use he had made of my name, I objected strenuously:
"Well, you certainly don't know me."
My resentment obviously puzzled him.
"I know who you _are_," he returned. "You and I--" With a deprecatory
gesture, as though good taste forbade him saying who we were, he
stopped. "But the ship's surgeon!" he protested; "he's an awful bounder!
Besides," he added quite simply, "he's watching me."
"As a doctor," I asked, "or watching you play cards?"
"Play cards," the young man answered. "I'm afraid he was ship's surgeon
on the P. & O. I came home on. There was trouble that voyage, and I
fancy he remembers me."
His confidences were becoming a nuisance.
"But you mustn't tell me that," I protested. "I can't have you making
trouble on this ship, too. How do you know I won't go straight from
here to the captain?"
As though the suggestion greatly entertained him, he laughed.
He made a mock obeisance.
"I claim the seal of your profession," he said.
"Nonsense," I retorted. "It's a professional secret that your nerves are
out of hand, but that you are a card-sharp is _not_. Don't mix me up
with a priest."
For a moment Talbot, as though fearing he had gone too far, looked at me
sharply; he bit his lower lip and frowned.
"I got to make expenses," he muttered. "And, besides, all card games are
games of chance, and a card-sharp is one of the chances. Anyway," he
repeated, as though disposing of all argument, "I got to make expenses."
After dinner, when I came to the smoking-room, the poker party sat
waiting, and one of them asked if I knew where they could find "my
friend." I should have said then that Talbot was a steamer acquaintance
only; but I hate a row, and I let the chance pass.
"We want to give him his revenge," one of them volunteered.
"He's losing, then?" I asked.
The man chuckled complacently.
"The only loser," he said.
"I wouldn't worry," I advised. "He'll come for his revenge."
That night after I had turned in he knocked at my door. I switched on
the lights and saw him standing at the foot of my berth. I saw also that
with difficulty he was holding himself in hand.
"I'm scared," he stammered, "scared!"
I wrote out a requisition on the surgeon for a sleeping-potion and sent
it to him by the steward, giving the man to understand I wanted it for
myself. Uninvited, Talbot had seated himself on the sofa. His eyes were
closed, and as though he were cold he was shivering and hugging himself
in his arms.
"Have you been drinking?" I asked.
In surprise he opened his eyes.
"_I_ can't drink," he answered simply. "It's nerves and worry. I'm
tired."
He relaxed against the cushions; his arms fell heavily at his sides; the
fingers lay open.
"God," he whispered, "how tired I am!"
In spite of his tan--and certainly he had led the out-of-door life--his
face showed white. For the moment he looked old, worn, finished.
"They're crowdin' me," the boy whispered. "They're always crowdin' me."
His voice was querulous, uncomprehending, like that of a child
complaining of something beyond his experience. "I can't remember when
they haven't been crowdin' me. Movin' me on, you understand? Always
movin' me on. Moved me out of India, then Cairo, then they closed Paris,
and now they've shut me out of London. I opened a club there, very
quiet, very exclusive, smart neighborhood, too--a flat in Berkeley
Street--roulette and chemin de fer. I think it was my valet sold me out;
anyway, they came in and took us all to Bow Street. So I've plunged on
this. It's my last chance!"
"This trip?"
"No; my family in New York. Haven't seen 'em in ten years. They paid me
to live abroad. I'm gambling on _them_; gambling on their takin' me
back. I'm coming home as the Prodigal Son, tired of filling my belly
with the husks that the swine do eat; reformed character, repentant and
all that; want to follow the straight and narrow; and they'll kill the
fatted calf." He laughed sardonically. "Like hell they will! They'd
rather see _me_ killed."
It seemed to me, if he wished his family to believe he were returning
repentant, his course in the smoking-room would not help to reassure
them. I suggested as much.
"If you get into 'trouble,' as you call it," I said, "and they send a
wireless to the police to be at the wharf, your people would hardly--"
"I know," he interrupted; "but I got to chance that. I _got_ to make
enough to go on with--until I see my family."
"If they won't see you?" I asked. "What then?"
He shrugged his shoulders and sighed lightly, almost with relief, as
though for him the prospect held no terror.
"Then it's 'Good night, nurse,'" he said. "And I won't be a bother to
anybody any more."
I told him his nerves were talking, and talking rot, and I gave him the
sleeping-draft and sent him to bed.
It was not until after luncheon the next day when he made his first
appearance on deck that I again saw my patient. He was once more a
healthy picture of a young Englishman of leisure; keen, smart, and fit;
ready for any exercise or sport. The particular sport at which he was so
expert I asked him to avoid.
"Can't be done!" he assured me. "I'm the loser, and we dock to-morrow
morning. So to-night I've got to make my killing."
It was the others who made the killing.
I came into the smoking-room about nine o'clock. Talbot alone was
seated. The others were on their feet, and behind them in a wider
semicircle were passengers, the smoking-room stewards, and the ship's
purser.
Talbot sat with his back against the bulkhead, his hands in the pockets
of his dinner coat; from the corner of his mouth his long
cigarette-holder was cocked at an impudent angle. There was a tumult of
angry voices, and the eyes of all were turned upon him. Outwardly at
least he met them with complete indifference. The voice of one of my
countrymen, a noisy pest named Smedburg, was raised in excited
accusation.
"When the ship's surgeon first met you," he cried, "you called yourself
Lord Ridley."
"I'll call myself anything I jolly well like," returned Talbot. "If I
choose to dodge reporters, that's _my_ pidgin. I don't have to give my
name to every meddling busybody that--"
"You'll give it to the police, all right," chortled Mr. Smedburg. In the
confident, bullying tone of the man who knows the crowd is with him, he
shouted: "And in the meantime you'll keep out of this smoking-room!"
The chorus of assent was unanimous. It could not be disregarded. Talbot
rose and with fastidious concern brushed the cigarette ashes from his
sleeve. As he moved toward the door he called back: "Only too delighted
to keep out. The crowd in this room makes a gentleman feel lonely."
But he was not to escape with the last word.
His prosecutor pointed his finger at him.
"And the next time you take the name of Adolph Meyer," he shouted, "make
sure first he hasn't a friend on board; some one to protect him from
sharpers and swindlers--"
Talbot turned savagely and then shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, go to the devil!" he called, and walked out into the night.
The purser was standing at my side and, catching my eye, shook his head.
"Bad business," he exclaimed.
"What happened?" I asked.
"I'm told they caught him dealing from the wrong end of the pack," he
said. "I understand they suspected him from the first--seems our surgeon
recognized him--and to-night they had outsiders watching him. The
outsiders claim they saw him slip himself an ace from the bottom of the
pack. It's a pity! He's a nice-looking lad."
I asked what the excited Smedburg had meant by telling Talbot not to
call himself Meyer.
"They accused him of travelling under a false name," explained the
purser, "and he told 'em he did it to dodge the ship's news reporters.
Then he said he _really_ was a brother of Adolph Meyer, the banker; but
it seems Smedburg is a friend of Meyer's, and he called him hard! It was
a silly ass thing to do," protested the purser. "Everybody knows Meyer
hasn't a brother, and if he hadn't made _that_ break he might have got
away with the other one. But now this Smedburg is going to wireless
ahead to Mr. Meyer and to the police."
"Has he no other way of spending his money?" I asked.
"He's a confounded nuisance!" growled the purser. "He wants to show us
he knows Adolph Meyer; wants to put Meyer under an obligation. It means
a scene on the wharf, and newspaper talk; and," he added with disgust,
"these smoking-room rows never helped any line."
I went in search of Talbot; partly because I knew he was on the verge
of a collapse, partly, as I frankly admitted to myself, because I was
sorry the young man had come to grief. I searched the snow-swept decks,
and then, after threading my way through faintly lit tunnels, I knocked
at his cabin. The sound of his voice gave me a distinct feeling of
relief. But he would not admit me. Through the closed door he declared
he was "all right," wanted no medical advice, and asked only to resume
the sleep he claimed I had broken. I left him, not without uneasiness,
and the next morning the sight of him still in the flesh was a genuine
thrill. I found him walking the deck carrying himself nonchalantly and
trying to appear unconscious of the glances--amused, contemptuous,
hostile--that were turned toward him. He would have passed me without
speaking, but I took his arm and led him to the rail. We had long passed
quarantine and a convoy of tugs were butting us into the dock.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Doesn't depend on me," he said. "Depends on Smedburg. He's a busy
little body!"
The boy wanted me to think him unconcerned, but beneath the flippancy I
saw the nerves jerking. Then quite simply he began to tell me. He spoke
in a low, even monotone, dispassionately, as though for him the
incident no longer was of interest.
"They were watching me," he said. "But I _knew_ they were, and besides,
no matter how close they watched I could have done what they said I did
and they'd never have seen it. But I didn't."
My scepticism must have been obvious, for he shook his head.
"I didn't!" he repeated stubbornly. "I didn't have to! I was playing in
luck--wonderful luck--sheer, dumb luck. I couldn't _help_ winning. But
because I _was_ winning and because they were watching, I was careful
not to win on my own deal. I laid down, or played to lose. It was the
cards _they_ gave me I won with. And when they jumped me I told 'em
that. I could have proved it if they'd listened. But they were all up in
the air, shouting and spitting at me. They believed what they wanted to
believe; they didn't want the facts."
It may have been credulous of me, but I felt the boy was telling the
truth, and I was deeply sorry he had not stuck to it. So, rather
harshly, I said:
"They didn't want you to tell them you were a brother to Adolph Meyer,
either. Why did you think you could get away with anything like that?"
Talbot did not answer.
"Why?" I insisted.
The boy laughed impudently.
"How the devil was I to know he hadn't a brother?" he protested. "It was
a good name, and he's a Jew, and two of the six who were in the game are
Jews. You know how they stick together. I thought they might stick by
me."
"But you," I retorted impatiently, "are not a Jew!"
"I am not," said Talbot, "but I've often _said_ I was. It's helped--lots
of times. If I'd told you my name was Cohen, or Selmsky, or Meyer,
instead of Craig Talbot, _you'd_ have thought I was a Jew." He smiled
and turned his face toward me. As though furnishing a description for
the police, he began to enumerate:
"Hair, dark and curly; eyes, poppy; lips, full; nose, Roman or Hebraic,
according to taste. Do you see?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"But it didn't work," he concluded. "I picked the wrong Jew."
His face grew serious. "Do you suppose that Smedburg person _has_
wirelessed that banker?"
I told him I was afraid he had already sent the message.
"And what will Meyer do?" he asked. "Will he drop it or make a fuss?
What sort is he?"
Briefly I described Adolph Meyer. I explained him as the richest Hebrew
in New York; given to charity, to philanthropy, to the betterment of his
own race.
"Then maybe," cried Talbot hopefully, "he won't make a row, and my
family won't hear of it!"
He drew a quick breath of relief. As though a burden had been lifted,
his shoulders straightened.
And then suddenly, harshly, in open panic, he exclaimed aloud:
"Look!" he whispered. "There, at the end of the wharf--the little Jew in
furs!"
I followed the direction of his eyes. Below us on the dock, protected by
two obvious members of the strong-arm squad, the great banker,
philanthropist, and Hebrew, Adolph Meyer, was waiting.
We were so close that I could read his face. It was stern, set; the face
of a man intent upon his duty, unrelenting. Without question, of a bad
business Mr. Smedburg had made the worst. I turned to speak to Talbot
and found him gone.